


Self-worth Issues  ♢    Pretend  ♢   Shaky hands

by taylor_tut



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alcohol, Drinking, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Sick Character, Sick Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Sickfic, TMAHCweek, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-26
Updated: 2020-08-26
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:48:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26119045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taylor_tut/pseuds/taylor_tut
Summary: A fill for the TMA H/C Week run by themagnuswriters on tumblr! This is for day one, where the prompts were what the title says.Jon goes out for drinks with the archive assistants, but he's not feeling well. Tim looks out for him, and eventually they all sleep in a cuddle puddle on the floor because Martin and Sasha are drunk and Jon is sick and sad :(
Comments: 10
Kudos: 220





	Self-worth Issues  ♢    Pretend  ♢   Shaky hands

[Group Chat]

[Sasha 09:13]: just got out of jon’s office. he’s in a mood 

[Tim 09:13]: f

[Martin 09:13]: f

[Sasha 09:15]: no, not like that

[Sasha 09:15]: like, the best mood i’ve ever seen him in. did elias die? 

[Martin 09:16]: saw him this morning, so unless jon… you know… then i don’t think so?

[Tim 09:17]: exactly what did he say to you

[Sasha 09:19]: well if i just type it out i’m going to sound mad

[Martin 09:20]: that’s never stopped anyone in this place before. why start now?

[Sasha 09:20]: fair point

[Sasha 09:22]: it wasn’t really anything special. he just asked how i was doing today, and didn’t immediately start shuffling papers around, almost like he was listening? and then he asked what i had on my schedule for the day. and when i told him, he said “if i can be of any help, let me know”

[Martin 09:24]: brb checking on elias

[Martin 09:27]: he’s alive. 

[Sasha 09:27]: :/

[Tim 09:27]: well, let’s go easy on jon today anyway. don’t want to press our luck. 

[Sasha 09:31]: are you joking?? i vote we milk it for everything it’s worth. 

[Martin 09:32]: tim is right! we shouldn’t take advantage. 

[Martin 09:33]: though if he’s still in a good mood by, say, lunch time…

[Tim 09:33]: martin no

[Sasha 09:34]: martin yes!!

[Martin 09:43]: ...perhaps we could invite him to the pub with us after work for drinks?

Tim sighs as Martin and Sasha continue to text their plans back and forth. He might not know Jon particularly well, but he does know him better than the other two, and one thing he has gathered is that when Jon is in a good mood, it means he’s hiding something: historically, that “something” has been that he’s not feeling well. When Jon is ill, it seems, or having a migraine or just generally in pain, he overcompensates by being chatty and chipper. This, however, is the most conspicuous thing he could possibly do, because Jon being in a marginally worse mood than usual isn’t nearly as confusing as Jon suddenly being friendly. Tim is surprised that Martin and Sasha aren’t seeing through it. 

The silver lining is that Jon also has an upper limit to the cheerful--if it’s bad enough, eventually, Jon will retreat into himself, quiet and reserved and much more what one would expect of Jon when he’s ill. 

On the other hand, despite knowing this, it’s not his information to share. Jon is a big boy, and if he’s not feeling up to drinks, he can say so himself. 

...Or, Tim will just hope Jon goes back to silent and cold before Martin and Sasha ask him out. 

Jon joins them for lunch. It’s unexpected, particularly given that Tim can see and hear how unwell he is, but not unwelcome. When Tim sets aside the exhaustion and roughness in his voice, the hour could almost pass for old times, when they were both just researchers, and used to take their lunch breaks together even though Jon usually half-worked through them, always preoccupied by some other thought. Tim never questioned that. Jon’s full attention seemed, after all, like it might be too much to handle, and he was happy with whatever fraction of it he could get. 

The chat is lively, and Jon is involved, heavily so. He weighs in when they talk about movies, though it’s clear he hasn’t seen a new film in a number of years. He goes into detail about why he believes corvids are people, which makes Martin short-circuit. Most importantly, he’s smiling, which is nice to see even if Tim notices the cracks, tiny fissures where he’s forcing himself to show a side that Martin and Sasha are unfamiliar with just to cover up the self-perceived weakness that might be associated with just admitting he’s not feeling well and going home. 

There’s pain there, aching, chronic, silent. Tim can’t put his finger on where it’s coming from or what it means or even whether it’s Jon’s or his own, but it gets a little stronger every time Jon laughs. 

“So, you have to promise not to bite my head off for this,” Sasha says near the end of their break, and Jon frowns, setting down his fork mid-bite of the salad he’s barely been picking at all hour. 

“You have my word,” Jon says, typically overdramatic. Sasha smiles. 

“Tim, Martin, and I sometimes go out to a pub on Fridays after work,” she begins, and Tim can feel Martin tense next to him like he’s waiting to hear whether a loved one will be receiving the death sentence. “We were wondering if maybe you’d like to join us tonight?”

Jon falters. For a moment, Tim isn’t sure what he’s going to say. He’d expected a hard “no;” of course he had. It’s JON. But the look on his face…

He looks flattered. 

“I wouldn’t want to intrude,” he declines, but Martin is quick to interject. 

“We’d love to have you,” he adds, blushing. “Only if you want to, of course.”

Jon does his best impression of someone aloof as he shrugs, runs a hand through his hair, stands up to toss the remainder of his salad back into the fridge. 

“Perhaps I’ll stop by. I--appreciate the invitation. Thank you.” 

Always full of surprises. Tim shoots him what he hopes is a knowing look, the sort that says, “I can see through you to your core and I know you’re faking this, and that’s okay; I’m not going to call you on it, but if you need someone to come to when the wall breaks down, I’m here.” 

Well. He hopes it says all that, anyway. Jon offers him a sheepish smile as he mutters something about getting back to work, and even promising that he’ll see them all later. 

Two hours later, Jon texts Tim and asks what he should wear. Tim texts back and says there’s no dress code; whatever he’s wearing is fine. Jon asks whether Tim will be changing before they go, and he responds that he will not. Jon asks whether Martin and Sasha will be changing before they go, and Tim says that they usually don’t. Jon leaves the message on “read,” because he, the absolute madman, still has read receipts enabled in the year of our lord 2019. 

Jon doesn’t change, but when he meets them in the car park, he’s dressed in a thick wool cardigan that he wasn’t wearing earlier. However, Tim is confident that is more of a fever-chills-driven choice rather than one based in fashion conscientiousness, as his arms are pressed tightly across his chest and he’s pale but also flushed. 

He’d say something, normally, but Sasha has walked out with him, and he knows it’ll embarrass him in a way that Tim just can’t get behind. As the resident prankster, he’s got to have boundaries. Lawful funny. 

Hm. He’ll have to tell that one to Martin later. 

“Alright, everyone ready?” he asks, eyeing Jon closely. He nods, but doesn’t respond verbally, and oh, shit, that’s not a good sign.

Tim should call him out, corner him, tell him that they’ll reschedule and to just go home and get some rest, because honestly, he looks awful.

He doesn’t do any of that. Instead, he gets behind the wheel of the car as soon as Sasha chirps her affirmative reply and climbs into the front seat beside him. 

“You never offer to be the designated driver, Mr. Stoker,” she says. “I assumed you’d make Jon do it, since he’s never tagged along before.” 

Tim smiles. “That’s why he’s safe,” he defends. “If he has to contend with me drunk, he’ll never come out with us again.” 

She nods seriously, turning around to speak with Jon in private despite that Tim can absolutely hear her and she’s only lowering her voice performatively. 

“It’s true,” she stage-whispers. “He’s a monster. Specifically, a karaoke monster.”

Jon huffs a laugh through his nose. “Hm. I believe it.” 

Sasha frowns. “You alright?”

He nods. “Why?”

“You just seem… less excited than you did this afternoon. Wondering if you’re regretting agreeing to come out with us, after all.” 

Jon smiles as he nods, and from what Tim can see from the rear-view mirror, it appears genuine. “I’m sure I’ll wake back up once we get to the pub.” 

Sasha accepts that, and Jon listens quietly to the conversation Tim intentionally occupies, nodding along at seemingly random intervals. 

Truthfully, he’s not drinking because he’s pretty sure he’ll be driving Jon home early, but no one has to know that, not even Jon. 

The pub is loud and dark and crowded. If Tim were to take a wild guess, he’d say it’s not Jon’s typical scene at all. Jon’s typical scene is more likely a liminal space sort of vibe: a diner after midnight, or a library in a thunderstorm, but certainly not a place like this. It’s not hopping or anything; there aren’t that many people inside, but it’s definitely busy, and Jon immediately looks uncomfortable. 

“Is it too loud?” Tim asks low in his ear as soon as Sasha spots Martin and takes off in his direction. “We can go somewhere else. Or home, if you’d prefer.” 

To Tim’s surprise once again, Jon looks almost hurt, if Jon did that sort of thing. “Did you not want me to come?”

Oh, shit. Not a wild leap but certainly not the one he’d been trying to convey. He squeezes Jon’s shoulder as he turns him around to face the table Martin has saved for them.

“Of course I’m glad you’re here,” he reassures as they weave through the crowd. “I just don’t want you to be uncomfortable; that’s all.”

Jon nods. “Well, thank you. But I’m alright.” 

Right. That’s believable, considering that he’s warm beneath Tim’s hand and the night has barely begun. 

When they get to the table, Tim smiles at the fact that Martin had gone home to change--instead of his thick, worn jumper he’d had on at work, he’s now wearing a thin black long-sleeve tee. It suits him. He’d never gone home to change before, but this time is apparently special. Tim can’t wait to give him hell about it later, but for now, he settles for telling him he looks nice and sipping from one of the waters that Martin had ordered for all of them. 

“I wasn’t sure if you’d be hungry,” he addresses the group as a whole, “but I did order a plate of chips to share. Hate to have anyone drinking on an empty stomach, right?” 

“Aw, thanks, Marto!” Tim beams. “Always so thoughtful. Have you ordered a drink?”

“I wanted to wait for you to get here,” he replies. “Shall we?”

“I’m driving,” Tim says, “but these two crazy kids will go with you.” 

Sasha stands up with him, but Jon shakes his head. 

“I’m not, er, quite in the mood to drink right now,” he half admits. “Perhaps later.” 

Martin looks disappointed and a bit embarrassed. “Oh, sure!” he says anyway. “Whatever you’re comfortable with. We’ll be right back.” 

Tim wants to take the time that they’re gone to ask Jon whether he really wants to be here, but he’s afraid that if he does, that it will make him feel unwelcome. Instead, he just starts chatting, even knowing that Jon is only hardly listening. Looking like they’re deep in conversation will mean that Sasha and Martin won’t ask any questions before they start drinking, and considering they’re both lightweights, it won’t be long before they’re both too drunk to even notice Jon’s change in demeanor. 

“So, I sent a follow-up email,” Tim continues, “asking if I could come ask that statement giver’s ex-wife a few questions. A week passed, and I didn’t hear--oh, Jesus.”

That catches Jon’s attention, and he snaps to focus. “What?” 

“Martin and Sasha are taking shots,” he snickers. “Oh, God, and it’s two each.” 

Jon frowns. “What’s so bad about that?”

“Listen, we already talked about how I’m an annoying drunk,” he explains, “but what I failed to mention is that these two are even worse. Sasha’s a wanderer. Take your eyes off her, and she’s suddenly barhopping with a wedding party. She likes to make ‘friends.’ A true diplomat.” 

Despite himself, Jon smiles. “And Martin?” 

“Ah. Surprising exactly no one, Martin is a mother hen drunk. He fusses about everyone else, tries to force water and food into you.” 

“Oh, so… like when he’s sober.” 

“Worse. Last time we went out, he put a plaster on my little hang-nail and made the cabbie stop at the chemist to get iron supplements because Sasha ‘looked a bit pale.’ Drunk me likes to sing, drunk Sasha likes to socialize, but drunk Martin just wants to raise you.” 

Jon’s smile makes Tim rethink his suspicion at Jon’s desire to tag along for drinks. If nothing else, he really loves his friends. 

“Alright, lads,” Sasha greets, some fruity drink in her hand as she sits on the opposite side of the booth from Jon and Tim, “the clock is ticking on Martin and I being coherent, so if there’s anything you’d like to say to sober us, say it now.” 

“I’d like to say I will miss you both when you’re on your own drunken planet,” Tim says, and although he doesn’t expect a word from Jon, he is, once again, incorrect in his assumption. 

“Just,” he starts uncomfortably, “thanks for inviting me out.” 

“Aw, Jon, of course!” Sasha dismisses cheerfully. “But remember, this is an audition. Only way to pass is to enjoy yourself. You don’t need to drink, but you have to have a good time, deal?” 

“Deal,” he agrees. 

Two hours later, Jon is decidedly not having a good time, or at least, Tim is pretty sure he isn’t. He’s barely spoken a word in the past half hour, and even before that, he wasn’t half as talkative even as he normally is. Perhaps it’s the dim lighting, but Tim thinks he’s looking paler than he had at the beginning of the night, and he’s definitely shivering. He hasn’t touched the food, and barely sipped at his water. 

Sasha and Martin are fully drunk. Predictably, Sasha is itching to wander off--she’s asked several times if anyone will dance with her, and the answers have all been “no,” because Martin doesn’t dance even when he’s drunk, Tim has been a bit too worried to leave Jon alone, and Jon is… well. Indisposed. 

After the third time she asks, Martin makes a shooing motion with his hands. “I will,” he compromises, “stand next to you on the dance floor. I will not dance.” 

She squeals. “Martin, you’re my best friend ever!” she gushes, and Tim clutches his chest.

“Ouch,” he whines dramatically. “I thought what we had was special, Sash.” 

“Well, if it’s so special, you’d dance with me,” she leverages, and Jon shrugs despite that Tim hadn’t thought he’d been listening in the first place. 

“She’s got a point,” he says, and Sasha is taking his arm, sending sparks of warmth and electricity from each place the pads of her fingers touch his skin all the way to his toes, making a detour to wrap around his heart and stomach to squeeze pleasantly. 

“Boss’ orders,” she reaches. “You heard the man. Dance with me or you’re fired.”

“Jon can’t fire us,” Martin argues.

“Then, back to research!” Sasha banishes. “Unless you dance with me!” 

“Yes, I understand the terms,” Tim says, “but Jon—” 

“Go,” he urges. “Have fun.” 

“It would mean. Everything to me. To see you dance. Just once,” Sasha says dramatically, almost tearfully. Tim can’t tell if it’s for comedic effect or not, but he’s not about to laugh to find out. 

“Not this time,” he declines.

“Another night then, is what I’m hearing,” she says. “Holding you to that!” 

Before she can tug him away, Tim leans in toward Jon. “Sure you’re okay here by yourself?” 

Jon nods. It’s the only response he gives, and Tim has no choice but to trust it. 

Tim likes dancing. Sasha and Martin both know it, which is the main reason he didn’t insist on staying with Jon--they’d have figured out that there was something more to it than just being polite, and once Martin had suspicions, there’d be no stopping them from prying until Jon confessed everything and decided to never come out with them again. 

After two songs, Tim insists that Sasha should drink some water, and when they arrive back at the table, Jon is gone. Tim suggests texting him, and without context, yeah, it seems a bit excessive.

“He left his cardigan on the chair,” Martin notices, the drunken detective, “so he’s coming back. I’m sure he just went to use the restroom.” 

“I might just go check in on him. See how he’s doing.” 

“Tim,” Sasha interjects, “he’s an adult. Is there a reason you’re watching over him like he’s a flight risk?” 

He’s trying to think of an answer when he catches Jon out of the corner of his eyes, stumbling out of the restroom looking decidedly miserable and shaky, and it hits him. 

“I think he overdid it on the drinks,” he lies, quickly getting to his feet. “Tried to catch up with you while we were dancing, and I think he might’ve made himself sick. I’ll be back.” 

Tim rushes to Jon, who is braced up against a wall and breathing deeply in through his nose and out through his mouth. There’s no denying any of it any longer--the shaking, the strain it’s taking just to keep upright, the headache making him clutch his temple in agony. 

“Are you finally ready to throw in the towel and get out of here?” Tim asks. Jon simply nods again, and he motions toward the door, knowing that Martin would be watching. 

Martin and Sasha meet him at the door with Jon’s cardigan in hand. 

“You don’t have to—”

“Jon,” Sasha interrupts. “We’re tired. We might as well carpool, right?” 

Though Jon likely doesn’t believe her, he nods, and Tim grabs Sasha’s hand, because even though they’re nearing the end of the night, they’re not home free, yet, and she’s still got a chance of wandering off. In retaliation, she reaches out and takes Jon’s hand, and Martin takes his other one for fear of being left out. Tim walks his chain of idiots to his car, settles them in, and drives them to his own apartment. 

“Alright,” Tim announces, “straight to bed, the lot of you. I’m going to get comforters and pillows, because it’s a cuddle puddle sort of night.” 

Martin and Sasha are eager about the idea, and Jon seems too out of it to object. Tim sets to work finding all the soft materials he can find in his place, stripping his bed of everything but the sheets, and carrying armful after armful into the living room, where Martin nests it all into a suitable sleeping space. 

Because Sasha and Martin are still drunk, they’re asleep within minutes. Jon takes a bit longer, even after tea has been made and the lights have been turned off. 

“I know you’re still up, Jon,” Tim calls quietly, and Jon sits up. “Talk to me. What’s going on?” 

Jon is silent for so long that Tim doesn’t think he’s going to answer at all, but he does. 

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes, small and meek and embarrassed. 

“Sorry?” Tim echoes. “What for?” 

Jon shrugs. “All this. I shouldn’t have come.” 

Tim sighs. “Well, no, you shouldn’t have.” He anticipates more than sees Jon wince. “But only because you’re ill and should be resting.” 

“You knew?” 

“Please. Give me SOME credit. I’m not just a pretty face, Boss.” 

“No,” Jon agrees, “I know that. You’re… also a hell of a dancer, from what I saw tonight.” 

Tim has to remind himself to laugh quietly. “You liked that, did you!” he whispers. When Jon curls into himself with a soft groan, Tim has nothing but affection and exhaustion left in him. “Get some sleep. You’ll feel better in the morning.” 

“Goodnight,” Jon mutters, and Tim whispers it back.

Tim isn’t sure what wakes him up at first, but when he sees that Jon and Martin are both suspiciously absent from the blanket nest, he has a sneaking suspicion of what might have happened, and he follows that suspicion down the hall to his bathroom, where the door is closed and a thin stream of light is visible under the door. 

"Oh, dear," Martin croons quietly. "Are you sure you're alright? I didn't know you drank this much, poor thing. I should have checked in on you more." There's a long pause. "Think you could try some more water?" 

The only reply is god-awful dry heaving, which Tim can't ignore. He knocks on the door, hears Martin whisper some sort of apology and a promise to return soon. 

"Everything alright?" he asks in lieu of a greeting when Martin opens the door, and Martin grimaces. 

"Fine, fine," he reassures, but the concern in his face is clear. "I think he had a bit too much to drink." 

Tim frowns. "Could you go into the kitchen and get him a cup of water?" he asks, and Martin looks puzzled. 

"But--er, I mean, couldn't you just--"

"Martin," he insists, and Martin nods. 

"Right, of course. I'll. I'll find your cups."

"Cupboard above the sink," Tim calls after him as he turns his attention to Jon. 

"Hey, Boss," he says softly, flicking off the bathroom light before he sits on the ground next to him. His hand hovers over Jon's back for a moment, wondering if he can touch or if Jon will freak out, but he decides to just go with it, which turns out to be a good choice, as it allows him to feel the heat radiating off him. "Not feeling any better, I guess?" 

Jon moans. 

"Right. Listen, I know this is... probably going to be uncomfortable for you, but I need you to answer a few questions for me. How many times have you been ill?" 

After a long pause, Jon shrugs. "A... a few," he admits. Not a good sign, since Tim's watch tells him it's only midnight, and Tim's only been asleep since 9. 

"Alright. Have you been able to hold down any water?" 

"Haven't tried," he replies. "Dizzy." 

"Probably means you're dehydrated," Tim surmises. 

When Jon's back tenses, Tim's own stomach clenches up in sympathetic nausea, but he doesn't let it stop him from reaching up to hold Jon's hair back with one hand and rubbing gentle circles into his back with the other as he dry heaves again, clearly having nothing more in his stomach to expel. Tim winces at how painful it sounds, and it leaves Jon sniffling like he might be crying. Tim thinks that asking would certainly be crossing a line. 

"Damn it. I wish I had a thermometer." 

"What sort of adult doesn't own a thermometer?" Martin asks from the other side of the door. He sticks his hand in to offer the water, which Tim gives to Jon when he sits back to rest his back against the tub. His hands shake when he reaches for it, so Tim helps him to hold it steady while he takes a few tentative sips before pulling a face and shoving the water away. 

"Thank you, Martin," Tim says. "I appreciate it. You can go back to bed, if you want." 

"Is there... am I missing something here?" Martin asks. "It's just that I--it sort of feels like maybe--you're pushing me away?" 

Tim sighs. "No, of course not," he promises. "I just..."

"I'm not drunk," Jon admits, something which surprises Tim wholeheartedly. "Wasn't feeling well before we went out. S'why Tim didn't drink, right?" 

Tim nods. "Yeah. I just wanted to make sure someone would be sober to, uh, help out, if something happened. Like this." 

"Jon, Jesus," Martin chastises. "You might've said something. If we'd known you were ill, we wouldn't have--"

"Exactly," Jon curtails. "I... was just happy to be invited." 

"There's other weekends." 

"And you'd have wanted me another weekend?" 

Martin's vehement agreement notwithstanding, Tim can't help but wonder whether Jon might have a point. They'd only invited him tonight, after all, because he'd been in an unusually friendly mood, but that had only been a front because he was ill. Next Friday, he'd be back to his normal, crabby, stuffy self, the crabby, stuffy self that they've intentionally excluded from every pub night they've had. 

Tim just never would have imagined that Jon had wanted to go. The standoffish shell wasn't to keep them out, it was to keep their rejection from hurting so much. 

And that... sucked. 

"If I get a rubbish bin all emptied out, do you think you could move back to the living room?" Tim asks. "You could do with some sleep." 

Jon hesitates. "I... Can we see how the water sits? Sorry, I'm not trying to be difficult." 

"Jon," Tim chuckles lightly. "Do you see yourself at work? This is easy mode, compared to your usual. We'll sit here as long as you need." 

He relaxes slightly, against the bathtub mostly, but also, almost imperceptibly, into Tim's shoulder. 

"Any chance you're still drunk enough to give us a poetry reading?" 

Martin sputters, which makes Tim laugh. "Absolutely not! We're looking to make Jon LESS nauseous, not more." 

"But it's soothing!" 

"How do you know? Maybe I'm a slam poet; ever think about that?" 

Tim's eyes go wide. "Are you?" 

"Well, no, but--but I could be!" 

Jon's becoming heavier against his shoulder to the soundtrack of the soft bickering, and Tim's apartment hasn't felt this much like a home in a long time. 

Perhaps they'll invite him along next week as well, grumpy, stuffy attitude and all. 


End file.
